


Oz

by jameee25



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Apocalypse, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jameee25/pseuds/jameee25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Apocalypse, Dean and Sam go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oz

**Author's Note:**

> Betad by lotrspnfangirl. All remaining mistakes are mine and mine only.
> 
> A huge shout-out to the amazing waywardelle, for her virtual hand holding and emotional support, and to the sweet doilycoffin who calmed my jitters and did a brilliant proof-reading work. I never would have done it without you lovelies!
> 
> Kudos and comments are LOVE.

They are sitting in the Impala, parked at the sidewalk, in the last place Sam ever expected to be. He glances at Dean, who is looking out the window at the house standing outside and keeps his mouth shut.

Home.

Eventually, at the end of all things, after the Apocalypse, after Heaven and Hell were done baring their teeth at one another while ruining every damn thing that happened to stand in their way, after Sam and Dean polished off two bottles of tequila, spilling the rest into the smoking pyre that was once Bobby, they have no idea where to go.

And now they are here.

**

Sam remembers how he and Dean stood hopeless in the middle of the junk yard full of trashed cars in South Dakota; neither of themwishing to stay there longer than they absolutely had to. Sam wondered if he would ever see the place again. He didn't care. He was too tired to care, and too tired to cry, or too tired trying not to. He was tired, and he wanted to step into the first motel they see and sleep for a week. 

He turned to look at his brother. "Want me to drive?"   
Neither of them asked where to. Not for days. Yet the question was with them the whole time, floating above them like a third entity, louder than any of them was willing to admit. Sam still refuses to ask. Maybe because he knows that is one question Dean does not have the answer to. 

“Nah, you look like hell Sammy," said Dean, trying for a jest. "My baby deserves better."

They both know Dean is putting in an effort, going for a lighter tone, when the situation they are currently in is the furthest it can be from funny, but Sam appreciates it nonetheless. He doesn't have it in him to jab his brother back, but he leans over towards Dean, rests his forehead against the top of his head and whispers, "Thanks."

Dean lifts his hand slowly, but instead of putting it on Sam's cheek and pulling him in for a kiss, he pats him on the shoulder, turns to the driver's seat and says "Get in Sammy. We're outta here."

Sam wakes up after what feels like minutes, though the darkness around him hinted that it was at least a couple of hours. He blinked and tried to crack his neck, which felt crumpled after falling asleep with his head resting on the window, and looked at Dean.

"You awake princess?" Dean smiled at him, and though exhausted, his smile was real, and warm, and Sam couldn't help but smile back.

"Where are we?” He asked.

"Bumfuck, Colorado," answered Dean "And there should be a motel around here in about a mile, if the signs are anything to go by."

Sam leans back and says:"You mean if it's not burned down, or trashed, or filled with decomposing bodies."

"MySam. Always the optimist. Nah, I think it's okay. We passed some one-horse town not long ago, and it looked legit. Or at least, semi-livable, what with it being in Colorado, you know." Sam did not argue with that.

They arrived at a parking lot, which seemed kind of empty, but the light in the office was on, and the neon Bed and Breakfast sign was still flickering lightly.

Sam let out a relieved sigh. “I'll get us a room, you get the bags," said Dean, and left the car before Sam had even got a chance to say something.

The room is tiny, and one can barely pass between the queen size bed in the middle of it, to the TV chest, which had surely seen better days. Sam sat down on the bed and kicked off his boots. He laid back, and right before sleep took over he felt Dean open up his belt buckle and help him get out of jeans. There was nothing sexual about this gesture, but it was so familiar and comforting that Sam wanted to cry.

He pulled his brother towards him,one hand around his waist, hugging him close.   
"Sleep." He whispered. Dean covered them both with the moth-eaten comforter, and Sam was out like a light.

In the morning, they stood next to the car. The Where to question was still hovering above them, louder than ever.Sam opened the driver's door and entered the car, while Dean loaded up the bags in the trunk. He slipped smoothly to the seat next to his brother, and Sam turned to look at him. He had to ask.

"Grand Canyon?"

Dean looked at him for a long time, as if contemplating what to say. He bit his lower lip, lowered his gaze and then looked back up at Sam, his eyes hesitating but his voice steady and definite when he said "Let's go home Sammy." 

Sam raised his brows. "Huh?"

"Lawrence, Kansas," said Dean, and Sam, dumbstruck, needed a moment to recover. He looked at his brother, half a smile tugging at the corner of his lip, and pressed down the gas pedal.

**

So, here they are. The twilight skies are extremely clear, despite the fact that it’s the end of October. Neither of them says a word. They are sitting in the car, staring out of the window, looking at what was once a home and now is a generic burnt down wreck. Sam wonders if they are still sitting there because they are brainless, cowardly, or simply lacking the heart to deal with what's outside.

It is a ghost town. The streets are deserted, the houses- i.e, the ones that are still standing, are sooty and ruined. Sam tries hard not to think about Missouri, and Pastor Jim, and the rest of the people that live- lived- here, and mostly he tries not to think about their Home, about this house, if it can even be referred to as such.

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore, huh?" Dean's laugh is bitter and nervous. Again, Sam wants to answer back, to say something about the fact that Dean, Mr. I'm-not-gay-I'm-Sammysexual just went full-on Judy Garland, but the words get stuck in his throat. “I don't know what I was thinking, I never liked this place anyways." Dean keeps on, and Sam knows he is lying, knows that underneath his brother's badass façade, underneath his love for the open roads, for saving people, hunting things, Dean always wanted a home. And that his happiest memories were from fucking Lawrence, Kansas. From this concrete lump and its yellowing lawn, scattered with tiles and rusty pieces of metal.

" Dean…," Sam moves closer, one hip resting on the gear shift, but Dean keeps staring outside, wearing the same hollow expression, a mask of cynicism which can’t really hide anything. Sam raises a hand and pulls Dean's face to him. 

"Look at me."

Dean's face is still emotionless, a technique polished to perfection by years of cover-ups and poker games. But Sam knows him. And he can't, he won’t, see this expression on his brother's face again. 

Dean turns to him then, green eyes locked on his, and Sam leans forward and kisses him. It's a delicate kiss, almost hesitant - without the urgency that always seems to lurk under the surface, without lip-biting and exploring tongues, and moans silenced against jaws and stubble. 

"Sammy…" Dean backs off of him, but not by much, and their faces are still close.

"It doesn't matter Dean. It doesn't change a thing," says Sam. "This is not home. Even if it looked different…" Sam sighs.

"It doesn't matter," he repeats, not sure which one of them he is trying to convince.

"It does," says Dean, and his voice sounds eerily confident in the dark car. He is looking at Sam, and his eyes have a different spark than the one Sam got used to seeing in the past few months. Sam is not sure if it’s a look of acceptance or despair. Not that there is much difference anyways.

"You know what? " Dean's voice is still cocksure and loud. "You’re right. It doesn't change anything." And he reaches out a hand to grab at Sam's neck, calloused fingers pulling at the long hair in the base of his nape, "It doesn't matter at all." They are kissing again, and this time it's far from delicate, from careful. It's brutal, and aggressive, and so, so intense, and Sam feels like he lets out all of the frustration, the pain, the exhaustion of the past few days, of the past few years, dammit, on Dean's lips, on his tongue. And Dean gives back as good as he’s getting.  
It's completely dark outside now, and Sam knows how much Dean loves to watch, the kinky bastard, but this time he thinks that the dark gives Dean confidence. His kisses become more possessive, more demanding, more daring. One hand resting on Sam's neck, not just resting but holding down, almost painfully so, the other under Sam's shirt, blunt fingernails scratching a nipple, hard, fingers following paths from his collarbone to his abdomen. It hurts, and Sam knows he'll be covered in marks come morning, but he wouldn't want it any other way. Not right now. Not after the last week, not in front of this Thing that was once a home and now is simply a bad gag. At their expense. 

It does not go down the way it usually does, there are no semi-drugged smiles in between, no sweet-dirty one liners like "Sammy, baby, so fucking good," that Dean seems so keen on whispering in his ear, and go straight to Sam's cock. There is only Dean, his hands, moving up and down all over Sam's chest, his tongue, demanding and powerful and wet, and his eyes, gaping, wide open, not leaving Sam's for a second, challenging him, daring him to drop his gaze. Sam loves it. He doesn't want to stop, not now, not ever. He can stay right here, with Dean, inside the car with the foggy windows, for hours, days, years. But his dick is pressed painfully against his jeans, and it’s starting to hurt, so he pulls Dean to him, on him, moaning loudly when he feels the sweet friction.

Sam’s hands are holding Dean’s waist, pulling him hard over him, and for a few moments Dean lets him, and Sam is not afraid to take, rubbing them forcefully against each other, loves the feeling of Dean’s cock on his hip, hard enough to pound nails. “Fuck, Sammy,” Dean moans, and this is Sam’s territory now. He knows his next moves by heart, by muscle memory, so he reaches out for Dean’s belt. But then Dean is pulling his hair, hard, smashing his head against the car’s headrest, and moves Sam’s hand away. For a minute there Sam is confused, can’t really understand what he did wrong, but then he feels his brother’s hand on his belt buckle, opening it with skilled fingers, button and zipper and he is out, hot and hard and on fucking fire under Dean’s worn jeans. “It’s my turn to drive today,” Dean growls into Sam’s ear, biting his lobe and letting his tongue slide down on Sam’s jaw, stopping at his pulse point.

After that, every last drop of coherence still left in Sam is out of the window. Dean lifts his hips for a moment, and Sam can feel him struggling to toe his boots off. He succeeds, and now he is shedding off his jeans in one swift elegant movement, like snake skin. Sam can’t help but smile at the expertise in which he does that, though he is not surprised. They had years of practice after all. But his smile is wiped quickly off his face when Dean sits down in his lap, legs spread obscenely wide, and claims his mouth in a wet, needy kiss.

Sam backs off for a moment, only to mumble something that may have sounded like “glove compartment,” but Dean pays him no attention. Instead, he pushes two fingers into Sam’s mouth and whispers, “Make ‘em real wet Sammy,” 

“Dean, no,” Sam tries to argue, but his brother tightens up his hold in Sam’s hair and growls, teeth gritted, “I’m. Driving.” All of Sam’s willpower crumples, and he knows that he can’t deny his brother anything, won’t deny him anything. He is freely giving over control to his brother, and that knowledge sends shivers down his spine. He sucks hard on Dean’s fingers, nimble tongue sliding between them, licking over hard joints and calloused skin, and Sam moans, sound muffled because of the fingers that are still in his mouth. Not entirely muffled tough, judging by Dean’s answering moan. His brother pulls himself closer to him, Sam’s shaft rubbing against Dean’s crack, and Sam is going to lose his mind. “Dean,” he tries, “Dean, Dean, I can’t, I need…” He is so horny, and hard, and he knows that if they keep it up, this will be over even before it started.

“What, baby? What do you need Sam?” Dean is whispering in his ear, licking the rim and biting the lobe. “Tell me what you need sweetheart.” Sam almost spits Dean fingers out of his mouth.

“You, I need you,” With one unsteady hand he tries to push down his jeans, which are currently pressed against his hips, stopping his blood flow. Dean lifts up too fast and not far enough, but Sam manages to push down his pants and lets them pool around his ankles. 

Dean is above him. He lets his eyes drift down at them to watch, to see them together, to look at his hard dick pressed against Sam’s firm abdomen, and then up again, staring directly into Sam’s eyes. And Sam feels like time has stopped, and he doesn’t dare look away from his brother’s shiny emerald eyes. His mouth slacked, lips spit-wet, looking almost glossy with the faint light coming out of the streetlamps outside. And it’s not just sex, or comfort, or temporary satisfaction. It’s a need. A Necessity. Strong and scary and intense. A need Sam knew since he was seventeen years old. It’s about belonging, and being real, and shedding all other bullshit aside. It’s the real deal. It’s in these moments, in these looks and those touches that speak louder that any words they don’t say, not because they don’t dare, but because they simply don’t need. It’s in these moments that Sam feels the most exposed, almost as if he has no skin, and Dean can simply reach out and touch every bare nerve, every vein, to stroke fluttering lungs, to caress white-shiny bones, rapidly-beating heart. And the air is so charged with them that Sam’s eyes are filled with unshed tears.

Sam reaches out to hold Dean’s neck, needs to dull the loaded weight on his chest, and they are kissing again. Dean has one hand around his brother’s shoulder, and he leans on him, Sam’s thighs between his spread knees, and his other hand is moving down. Sam hears Dean’s moan and he can’t restrain himself any longer. He reaches out to Dean’s cock, pulsing and hard and glistering wet at the tip. Dean’s eyes shut down automatically, and his head drops backwards. Sam slides his hand further down, putting pressure on the soft spot behind Dean’s balls, moving a teasing finger around Dean’s rim, already stretched and sensitive because of the two fingers inside.

Dean moans louder, and the notion makes Sam bolder. He pushes his finger, almost dry, into Dean’s hole. It is clumsy, and uncomfortable, but there is something so very intimate in their fingers, pressed together inside Dean, twisting and curving against each other, and Dean is so hot, and tight, and Sam can’t wait another second. “Dean,” he gasps, “Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean…” And Dean opens his eyes again, pupils dilated, bottom lip red and bitten hard between his teeth. He pulls out his hand and brings it to Sam’s mouth. And Sam is licking, sucking, and biting. It’s borderline effort, taking his finger out of Dean, but Sam mimics his brother’s movement, his hand slowly coming up Dean’s back, leaving moist fingerprints all the way up.

In one swift movement Dean grabs both of Sam’s wrists and holds them high over the headrest. Sam is still trying to adjust to the change when he feels his brother wrapped around him, burning hot and moist and perfect. “Fuck!” His head is thrown back, almost violently as he struggles not to thrust hard into Dean. He knows it hurts, it must hurt, what with so little prep and no lube and yeah, he’s not exactly small. So he bites his lower lip, hard, tastes blood and waits for Dean to accommodate. But it seems like Dean does not really care. He rests a hand on Sam’s nape, the other one still holding firmly onto Sam’s wrists, and pulls his brother in to a brutal kiss. He lifts up a little, landing down on Sam in smooth, confident movements, and Sam is right there with him, thrusting his hips up to meet Dean’s rhythmic pace, while his brother is riding him 90 mph.

Sam has no illusions. He may be buried balls deep in Dean, but Dean is the one fucking him, strong, and fast and desperate, like it’s their last day on earth. Sam wants to let his hand free, wants both of them free so he can take hold of Dean’s dick, which is rutting against him. But Dean’s hold is strong, and relentless, and Sam prays he’ll be able to hold it until Dean comes. And the mere thought of his brother coming untouched on his cock is almost enough to push him to the edge. “Dean,” he tries to mumble, to moan, but his own voice sounds like a whine, needy and desperate.

“ Shhhh Sammy, a little longer, little longer, I’m with you,” replies Dean, and sounds as desperate as Sam feels. Sam moans, thrusting his hips up to the tempo his brother is dictating, trying to muster every last bit of self control he still has in him. Which is, to say, not much at all. He can feel his brother’s movement change, becoming less precise and more feral, feels his brother clench around him, and Sam shuts his eyes closed.

Dean’s hand is moving towards his face, his thumb under Sam’s eye, flickering against high cheek bones, and Sam can feel Dean’s hold on his wrists loosen up. “Open your eyes Sammy, look at me,” Dean whispers, his voice quiet, in stark contrast to their bodies, frantically moving together. Sam opens his eyes slowly, almost stressfully, and looks right into green eyes and long lashes.  
“Dean,” he whispers, and he is fucking done for good. Dean slams hard on him one last time, clenching around him like a vice, almost involuntarily, and shoots so hard that some droplets land in Sam’s hair. Sam is still emptying inside his brother, nearly crying from relief and from the sheer force of his orgasm.

Dean leans forward, letting go of Sam’s wrists, and Sam’s hands go down, dropping bonelessly to the sides of his body. Their faces are close, but they are not kissing, sharing the same air between them, moist and defined and smelling like sweat and come. It’s fucking perfect. 

Sam looks at Dean and smiles. A full, mega-watt, all-dimpled smile.

The world, and every last stinking pair of red shoes still on it, can burn to the ground.

Sam Winchester knows he’s home.


End file.
